Chapter One
Dessi
Aiven Burns AKA Ms. Burnzilla—a tyrant, authoritarian, and one of the most terrible people to ever walk this earth.
Unfortunately for me, she was also my boss.
One would assume the magick of the holidays would make someone like Aiven pull the stick out of her ass and offer her employees a smile. But after three years of hoping my superior would rip off her monster mask and behave like a human being, I’d become resigned to the fact that I worked for an automaton—one that had been created by our overlords to torture me and everyone who worked at the Mystic Distillery.
The onlygoodthing about Aiven was her predictability. She lived her life by the clock. The ticking hands dictated when she ate, slept, worked out, berated employees… I’d long since resigned myself to the fact that I had come to know everything she didbeforeshe did it. I didn’t even have to consult her schedule anymore.
Did that make me a good assistant? Perhaps. But it also meant that I knew too much about Burnzilla than necessary.
As I walked through the front doors of the Distillery, carefully balancing two tumblers of shadowbrew in one hand and my overstuffed bag in another, I wondered if I’d ever get used to the distinct smell. Three years had passed—three long, drawn-out years—and still, the scent of ozone was difficult to get used to.
Once, long ago, I’d wanted to ask if it was even safe for us to be packed in this space with such harsh chemicals and burnt herbs, but the thought faded quickly after learning more about my new work environment. Ozone, the byproduct of magick, was the least of my worries.
There were more than a few people here before me—that was not a surprise, given that tomorrow was the solstice and all orders had to be packaged, personalized, and shipped before ten this evening.
The foreman, a big, burly Alpha named Josephine, had already worked up a sweat as she transported boxes of lovespells to their assigned pallets.
I paused in the foyer as a courier dressed in a red uniform flagged me down.
“Ms. Nayak!”
“Let me guess,” I said, shifting my bag to the crook of my elbow. “Package for Ms. Burns?”
He hefted a large envelope out of his mail bag. I clasped it awkwardly under my arm, thanking him as I tottered up the stairs that separated the factory floor from the offices.
Mystic Distillery was an institution. For two centuries, it had been Meadowrun’s biggest employer.
On the floor, factory workers moved with mechanical precision, their brows furrowed as they worked. Like all of us, they were up against a deadline, and the ticking clock above their heads only reminded them that they were far, far behind.
Potion-making wasn’t delicate work—not in the distillery. Once, long ago, wytches and wyzards would tailor eachpotion to its recipient, but that personal touch had long since died with tradition.
Now, a team wearing thick rubber gloves and a black apron poured shimmering liquid from copper vats, the fumes curling upwards in thin ribbons of pinkish-green smoke. Another group of employees sealed glass bottles with their assigned crimson corks, the wax dripping down the curved glass like blood from cut fingers. Each potion bottle was then stamped with the Distillery’s sigil—a cluster of stars with the letters M.D. imprinted in the middle.
Steam hissed from the row of pressure chambers that rose high above our heads. The volatile brews were stored up there—those we used for curses and hexes. In their reinforced glass chutes, they were given time to stabilize before being packed away.
On the old wood floors, the safety runes glowed sharply—all green, thank the moons. The last time one of them had shifted to red, the glass chutes had destabilized and exploded within minutes.
In the corner of the factory floor, apprentices—or brewlings, as we called them—sorted sacks of dried herbs into their waiting receptacles. These would be taken to the potion room and added to the vats as needed.
I took the stairs carefully, placing one high heel on the step in front of me, then another until I reached the mezzanine. Here, the office spread out in front of us like a maze of wooden cubicles.
The sight of a colleague slumped at her desk stopped me short.
“Angie?” I called, using the bottom of the tumbler to tap on her desk. She came awake with a snort, her usually neat bob in straggles around her cheeks.
“Did you sleep here?” I asked as she tried to push her hair back into place. “Are you okay?”
“I…” She ran her palms over her pale cheeks. “Curse the moon, I can’t believe I fell asleep. I havesomuch to do.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to rest,” I said pointedly.
“I know.” She sighed. “It’s just… Bonnie’s recital is this evening and I wanted to make sure I could get everything done before I asked Ms. Burns for permission to leave.”
I felt my lips thin as she spoke.
